


Reylo Drabble Collection

by Celia_and



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Anxious dad Ben, Cunnilingus, Destructive reflections, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, Hair-pulling, Jealous Ben, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Redeemed Ben Solo, Reylo Baby, Smut, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Ben Solo, Touch-Starved Rey, Vaginal Sex, ratings vary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and
Summary: She could destroy him.(He wonders if she knows.)
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 156
Kudos: 486





	1. Mutually Assured

**He could destroy her.** **  
**  
She’s not a weakling; she loves her muscles and what they let her do. But it’s nothing compared to him. She forgets, sometimes, just how broad and big and solid he is, and then she sees him and marvels anew at the sheer circumference. He could snap her in half. That is, his muscles could, but his brain would never, ever let them.  
  
Sometimes she asks him to fuck her like an animal. Every time, his pupils blow wide. But he always hesitates. She has to beg him, to persuade him all over again that she wants this, that she wants him, that she _needs_ him. Even then, as he pounds into her with a relentless ferocity, he always holds a little bit back. She wants it all—the power and the pain—but she doesn’t ask because she suspects that he’s afraid of nothing in the world more than hurting her.  
  
It’s a heady thing, owning a tamed lion.

* * *

His heart lives outside his body, now.  
  
He is entirely hers. It’s more dangerous than he’d realized, being wholly dependent on another being who has their own body and mind and free will. Her power over him is absolute. She’s a benevolent master, most of the time. He lives for the sudden sunlight of her smile, for the bliss of her laugh, for the way she permits him to hover in her orbit. Each time she opens her legs to him he’s amazed all over again, that she would let him. That this isn’t just his deluded fever dream. That she would deign to want him for a while.  
  
But the occasional sour look, the odd impatient word, is hell on earth. Her pain and annoyance and frustration are his, two hundred fold. He lives and dies at her whim. His soul is prostrate before her; he kneels in the palm of her hand.  
  
 **She could destroy him.**  
  
(He wonders if she knows.)


	2. (In)finite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Set at some indeterminate point in the sequel trilogy. Ben has deserted the First Order and joined Rey and the Resistance.]

She’s generous with her love. She gives it freely to Finn and Rose and Poe and even BB-8, heaped up and overflowing. The jealousy almost consumes him.

He’s always thought of love, like time, as a finite resource. Everyone has a set amount to spend, so they aren’t likely to waste it on him. His parents accorded him a little, but they saved more for other people and other things, and eventually the bits earmarked for him ran out.

So when they re-join her friends, his first instinct is to hide her away. Make sure she saves all her love for him. Every smile that she gives Poe or hug that she gives Rose or laugh that she gives Finn is one that she doesn’t give to him.

She pours it on them, and somehow she still has some left for him. Not just some: she still seems to have just as much as before, and even more. It’s a puzzle. Maybe she’s pretending—maybe she just doesn’t want him to feel neglected.

Because it’s impossible, isn’t it, for her to love them all day, and then love him at night.


	3. Curls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Anxiety about parenting an infant

He curls over the edge of her crib at night, terrified.

He’s somehow convinced himself that it’s only his vigil that keeps her little chest moving up and down in almost-imperceptible baby breaths. She’s healthy—all the doctors said so. A perfect baby girl. Ten fingers, ten toes. But still he hovers, with a fear as old as time.

Her dark hair grows in wispy curls that brush her baby-soft neck. He wonders if this is what his mother saw, bending over his crib. Was his hair the same shade of chestnut? Did his arms rest beside his head in just the same way, unguarded and trusting? He wonders whether his mother’s heart held the same undying terror. And her mother’s, and hers. The chain stretches back and back, unbroken; he’s just the latest link. He wishes for the wisdom of the ages.

* * *

When she wakes in the darkness and he’s not beside her, she always knows where he’ll be. Hunched over the crib in the corner, like a dragon guarding treasure. She loves him then more than ever.

She wishes she could siphon away his fear and leave just the love. But for him, they’re intertwined: tendrils of terror shot through the love that courses through his being. So she can only lean over him and rub the spot between his shoulder blades and press her lips to the nape of his neck. He looks up amazed every time. _You’re mine,_ his look says. _And I’m yours. And there’s a little human that we made, right here. We made that. And I’m scared._

She takes his hand to lead him sleepily back to the bed, and he follows after a last backward glance. She curls herself around him, to keep the fear at bay.

It’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤️


	4. Touched

He almost doesn’t remember how to be touched.

When she brushes his arm with hers or runs a hand over his shoulder, it’s such a foreign feeling that he startles. But after the initial jump he leans into her, _melts_ into her, and when she pulls away his nerves strain to follow. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, and it’s strange that it should be so unfamiliar. Human contact is the most natural thing in the world—ubiquitous. But not to him. So to go from not having to having in overflowing abundance is a jolt. It wakes his body up, and he hadn’t even known it was sleeping.

It feels different from when they’re in bed together. Touch comes naturally in the night, urged on by her breathy sighs and the roll of her hips and the stinging-sweet rake of her nails on his skin. In the daytime it’s another thing entirely. Once he feels it, he craves it relentlessly. His heart waits on tiptoes for the next time she’ll decide to touch him. It takes her spelling it out for him to realize: _You’re allowed to touch me, too, Ben._

He doesn’t at first. It’s too much luxury, too extravagantly decadent. Being allowed to look at her and share her life and her bed, _and_ touch her whenever he wants to? Unthinkable. But finally he starts to graze her fingers with his, feather-light. He holds his breath and touches the ends of her hair, so lightly that he doesn’t know if she can feel it. One day he works up to skimming the small of her back with his hand, and she startles. He recoils. She takes his hand in both of hers, kisses it, and smiles an apology. It’s only then that it dawns on him.

She almost doesn’t remember how to be touched.

It’s okay. They can learn together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love these touch-starved babies _so_ much. 💛


	5. 10,000

The voice in his head has told him ten thousand times that he’s not good enough.

When she tells him that she loves him, that he’s wonderful, that he makes her happier than she could’ve ever imagined, she can tell that he wants to believe her, but it’s hard.

The voice wormed its way in, so even now that it’s gone, its echoes remain. It trained his brain to do its dirty work: prodding and doubting and questioning his worthiness and her love.

But it’s okay, she can be patient. She can wait. That’s one thing she’s good at: waiting. And with him by her side and no need for scratches on a wall, it’s easy.

The voice in his head has told him ten thousand times that he’s not good enough. So she’ll tell him that he is—ten thousand and one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💛


	6. Personal Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know how the ratings vary from drabble to drabble? This one is _definitely_ E. 😘

She can’t remember if he gave her five orgasms or six last night.

It nags at her all day. There were definitely two when he was going down on her, because she vividly remembers the second one being a surprise.

Before she met him, she’d never come from oral, but he made it his single-minded mission in life for a few weeks until his fingers squelching into her coupled with his unyielding tongue on her clit made her fingernails rip the sheet as she almost levitated.

Last night, it happened _twice_. He looked so innocently delighted, so boyishly proud of himself. She laughed and kissed herself off his chin as he filled her up. Then it’s all a bit of a blur.

Number three was a drawn-out crescendo of trembling, and he barely let her recover before the fourth hit fast and hard, stealing her breath. Or was that the fifth? Was there another one that snuck in before he flipped her over onto her stomach?

And she can’t remember if it ended with one long peak against his fist clenched obligingly underneath her, or two back to back. What defines an orgasm, anyway? Is there a physiological litmus test that demarcates where one ends and the next begins?

It was six, she decides. Definitely. Without a doubt. She’s entirely certain.

...Unless it was five. _Ugh_. It was the high-water mark of her sexual life to date—a personal best, an all-time record—and she doesn’t even know how high the water went.

Five or six? It drives her crazy, until she finally makes up her mind to ask Ben.

“How many times did I come last night?”

He perks up at that. “I dunno, a lot?”

“This is important, try to remember.”

“Okay.” His brow furrows as he thinks. “Five.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“You’d stake your life on it?”

“100%.”

“Okay. Good. This is good.”

“Actually, it might have been six.”

“BEN. I need to know my record!”

He looks at her and grins. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me!”

“Rey, I promise. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re impossible,” she huffs.

It turns out he’s right, though she doesn’t realize it until later. It doesn’t matter whether her record was five or six.

Because by the end of that night, it’s seven.

He keeps a tally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I post my drabbles on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/CeliaAnd2) before AO3, so feel free to come follow if you'd like to see them sooner! 💛


	7. Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I needed to write today. I hope maybe it’s what you need to read, too. ❤️
> 
> TW: Implied anxiety

Ben worries about things.

The worry hurts his heart, sometimes. At times it’s a needling pinch, and at times it’s a throbbing ache. It’s as if having her in his life is too much for his heart to bear. Maybe there was a mistake made in the design of his physiology. Maybe he wasn’t built for happiness.

At first he doesn’t know why it never occurred to him, but then he realizes: of course—he never had reason to prepare for this, because the thought of her was unimaginable. He’d never thought through the ramifications of love, because why would he? Before her, he had no reason to think that it would ever, ever be part of his life. She never occurred to him.

And now that she’s here, it’s like his brain has decided that it needs to worry. Not for himself, so much, because what does it matter what happens to him, as long as she’s safe?

The problem is that he knows too much of the bad in the world. He knows that people hurt people. He knows that people get sick, sometimes, and die. He knows that an asteroid could hit at any minute and there’s nothing he could do to protect her.

And as much as she promises him that none of those things will happen, he knows that she can’t know for certain. And so he worries.

* * *

Rey had always considered worrying to be a luxury. When you’re busy trying to get to the next meal you shouldn’t waste energy on worry, she used to think. It burns too many calories.

She didn’t realize it wasn’t a choice, until she met him. He can’t just turn that part of his brain off at will. When she tells him not to worry about her, she might as well be telling him not to love her. It’s impossible.

She tries to find the specific sources of his worry and address them. He’s worried someone will hurt her? She scoffs. “I’d like to see them try—you should be more worried for THEM.” He’s worried she’ll get sick? “I’m healthy as a horse. A REALLY healthy horse, Ben.”

He laughs and tries to let her believe that she’s made him feel better. But the worry stays, and she doesn’t know what to do. How to fix it. She’s good at fixing things, but not this. And she can’t stand it, the way it gnaws bites of him.

Finally one night she tries something different. They’re in bed, lying on their sides with his arm tight around her waist and his nose in her hair. She thinks that he thinks that if he holds her tight enough, she’ll be safe. His arm digs into her ribs a little, but that’s okay.

He says, so softly that she barely hears: “I’m scared.”

The words rise to her mouth to tell him that he doesn’t need to be scared. But this time she doesn’t let them out. Instead she lightly strokes the taut muscles in his forearm and says, “You take such good care of me.”

He’s silent for a few seconds, then the whisper comes, uncertain: “I do?”

“Of course you do.” His arm loosens slightly, just enough that she can shimmy onto her back and then turn to her other side to face him, nose to nose.

“Really?” He’s still hesitant.

She pulls back enough that he can see her eyes to read the sincerity in them. “You’re so good at taking care of me. No one could take better care of me than you do.”

“But what if something bad happens to you?”

“I can’t promise you that nothing bad will ever happen to me, Ben,” she says, touching his cheek softly. “But if it does, it will _never_ be because you didn’t take good enough care of me.”

The tears tumble out before he can stop them, streaming down into the pillow. She holds him through the silent sobs, with a grip tight enough to hurt. She nuzzles him as he cries until both of their faces are wet with his tears.

She holds him until he falls asleep, and afterwards, too. At least that’s something she can do.

He still worries, the next day. But maybe just a little bit less. And now she understands a little bit more.

And loves him so much that her heart hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤️


	8. Brand New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small T-rated drabble inspired by [@villainouschild’s tweet](https://twitter.com/villainouschild/status/1297048785105776651). ❤️

He doesn’t understand any woman, but he especially doesn’t understand her.

He gets the feeling that she’s only letting herself like him a little. There’s something holding her back from liking him a lot. It’s okay. He can do enough liking for the both of them. And he does.

There are certain things he’s learned not to bring up. He doesn’t know her family situation, but he knows she doesn’t like to talk about it. Money, too. She hates letting him pay. So they go to the park and sit against a tree and watch the dogs play, and who needs money, anyway?

One day he gets up his courage to invite her over, and she freezes up. He hastens to assure her that it’s not about sex: if she’s not ready, that’s fine—he doesn’t even know if he’s ready, but he just wants her to know that she can come over if she wants. That he would like that.

She doesn’t answer for a week, then out of the blue she says yes. They sit awkwardly on opposite ends of his couch for a while, and he wonders if the park isn’t better after all. But then she lurches over and kisses him and jumps up and leaves, and he’s thrilled and confused.

She kisses him more often after that. He loves it.

She pulls his hair while they make out. He doesn’t even know if she realizes she’s doing it. He thinks he would rather have his hair pulled by her than anyone else in the world.

One day she’s jumpy and nervous. It isn’t unusual. He gives her space.

She drops a glass and apologizes profusely and cuts her hand in her haste to clean it up. He stops her and washes her hand and carefully applies Neosporin and a Band-aid and kisses it.

“Do you want to come over?” she blurts out.

He’s surprised. “Yes?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Her lips quirk in a hesitant smile. “Good.”

He touches her face shyly. “Good.”

They set a date: he’s going to come over the next Saturday. She texts him all week apologizing about the state of her room. He doesn’t know what to say. He texts back that he’s sure it’s fine. That he doesn’t care what it looks like. That he likes her really a lot.

She meets him at the front door on Saturday and kisses him quickly and leads him briskly through a small living room and down some stairs, like if she slows down she’ll lose her nerve. She takes a deep breath before she opens the door. They step inside.

He doesn’t know why she looks so scared, but he’d like for her to not be scared.

“Is it okay?” she asks, wringing her hands.

“Is what okay?”

“This,” she gestures around. “I didn’t know if you would still like me.”

“What?”

“If you want to leave, it’s okay.”

He wishes there were a book he could study to understand her. “Why would I want to leave?”

“I know it’s not a nice place.”

He looks around at the neatly organized shoes, the meticulously straight bedspread, the carpet doing its very best to cover the stained floor.

When he looks back at her, she’s close to tears. “I didn’t invite you over before because my old pillowcase was stained. I wanted to save up for new ones.”

He glances over at the bed. The pillowcases are brand new, still creased from their packaging.

He looks back at her. A tear has slipped out. “You can leave,” she says hurriedly. “It’s fine.”

“Why would I want to leave?” he repeats.

She looks up at him with something like hope.

He shuffles toward her. “I never want to leave you.”

She wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Really?”

He reaches out for her hand, heedless of the tears. He doesn’t know how to do this. “I like you. I love you. I like you.”

The tears are replaced by a sunshine smile. “Really?”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

“Me too.”

His heart leaps. “Yeah?”

She nods.

They use those new pillowcases that night. And she pulls his hair a lot.


End file.
